In the middle of the night of Good Friday, John Storm was wakened by noises in the adjoining cell.  There seemed to be the voices of two men in angry and violent altercation, the one threatening and denouncing, the other protesting and supplicating.

“The girl is deadisn’t that proof enough?” said one voice.  “It’s a lie!  It’s a false accusation!” said the other voice.  “Paul, what are you going to do?” “Put this bullet in your brain.”  “But I’m innocentI take the Almighty to witness that I’m innocent.  Put the pistol down.  Help! help!” “No use callingthere’s nobody in the house.”  “Mercy! mercy!  I haven’t much money about me, but you shall have it all.  Take everythingeverythingand if there’s anything I can do to start you in lifeI’m rich, PaulI have influenceonly spare me!” “Scoundrel, do you think you can buy me as you bought my sister?” “And if I did I was not the only one.”  “Liar!  Tell that to herself when you meet her at the judgment!” “As-sassin!” “Too lateyou’ve met her!”

John Storm listened and understood.  The two voices were one voice, which was the voice of Brother Paul.  The lay brother was delirious.  His poor broken brain was rambling in the ways of the past.  He was re-enacting the scene of his crime.

John hesitated.  His impulse was to fly into Paul’s room and lay hold of him, that he might prevent him from doing himself any injury.  But he remembered the law of the community, that no member of it should go into the cell of another under pain of grievous penance.  And then there was the rule of silence and solitude which had not yet been lifted away.

But monks are great sophists, and at the next moment John Storm had told himself that it was not Brother Paul who was in the adjoining room, but only his poor perishing body, labouring through the last sloughs of the twilight land of death.  Paul himself, his soul, his spirit, was far away.  Hence it could be no sin to go into the cell of one whose senses were not there.

His own door was locked, but he scraped back the key and lit his candle, and stepped into the passage.  The voices were still loud in Paul’s room, but no one seemed to hear them.  Not another sound broke the silence of the sleeping house.  The cell beyond Paul’s was empty.  It was Brother Andrew’s cell, and Andrew was at the door downstairs.

When John Storm entered the dark room, candle in hand, Brother Paul was standing in the middle of the floor with one hand outstretched and a ghastly and appalling smile upon his face.  He was pale as death, his eyes were ablaze, his forehead was streaming with perspiration, and he was breathing from the depths of his chest.  He wiped the dews from his brow and said in a choking voice, “He has died as he liveda liar and a scoundrel!”

John took him by the hand and drew him to the bed, and, putting him to sit there, he tried to soothe and comfort him.  He was terrified at first by the sound of his own voice, but the sophism that had served to bring him, served to support him also, and he told himself it could be no breach of the rule of silence to speak to one who was not there.  The delirium of the lay brother spent itself at length, and he fell into a deep sleep.

Next day, when Brother Andrew came to John’s cell with the food, he began to sing as if to himself while he bustled about the room.

“Brother Paul is sinkinghe is sinking rapidlyFather Jerrold has confessed himhe has taken the sacramentand is very patient.”

This, as if it had been a Gregorian chant, the great fellow had hit upon as a means of communicating with John without breaking the rule and committing sin.

John did not lock his door on the following night.  On going to bed he listened for the noises he had heard before, half fearing and yet half wishing that he might hear them again.  But he heard nothing, and toward midnight he fell asleep.  Something made him shudder, and he awoke with the sensation of moonlight on his face.  The moon was indeed shining, and its sepulchral light was on a figure that stood by the foot of the bed.  It was Paul, with a livid face, murmuring his name in a voice almost as faint as a breath.

John leaped up and put his arms about him.

“You are ill, brothervery ill.”

“I am dying.”

“Help! help!” cried John, and he made for the door.

“Hush, brother, hush!”

“Oh, I don’t care for rule.  Rule is nothing in a case like this.  And, besides, it is an understood thing Help!”

“I implore you, I conjure you!” said Paul in a voice strangled by weakness.  “Let them leave us together a little longer.  It was by my own wish that I was left alone.  I have something to say to yousomething to confess.  I have to ask your pardon.”

In two strides John had reached the door, but he came back without opening it.

“Why, my poor lad, what have you done to me?”

“When you let me out of the house to go in search of my sister ”

“That was long ago; we’ll not talk of it now, brother.”

“But I can not die in peace without telling you.  You remember that I had something to say to her?”

“Yes.”

“It was a threat.  I was going to tell her that unless she gave up her way of life I should find the man who had been the cause of it and follow him up and kill him.”

“It was only a temptation of the devil, brother, and it is past; and now ”

“Don’t you see what I was going to do?  I was going to bring trouble and disgrace upon you also as my comrade and accomplice.  That’s what a man comes to when Satan ”

“But God willed it otherwise, brother; let us say no more about it.”

“You forgive me, then?”

“Forgive?  It is I who ought to ask for your forgiveness, and perhaps if I told you everything ”

“There is something else.  Listen!  The Almighty is calling me; I have no time to lose.”

“But you are so cold, brother!  Lie on the bed, and I’ll cover you with the bedclothes.  Oh, never fear; they sha’n’t separate us again.  If the Father were at homehe is so good and tender-heartedbut no matter.  There, there!”

“You will despise and hate meyou who are so holy and brave, and have given up everything and conquered the world, and even triumphed over love itself!”

“Don’t say that, brother.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?  Everybody knows what a holy life you live.”

“Hush!”

“But I have never lived the religious life at all, and I only came to it as a refuge from the law and the gallows; and if the Father hadn’t ”

“Another time, brother.”

“Yes, the story I told the police was true, and I had really ”

“Hush, brother, hush!  I won’t hear you.  What you are saying is for God’s ear only, and, whatever you have done, God will judge your soul in mercy.  We have only to ask him ”

“Quick, then; the last sands are running out!” and he strove to rise and kneel.

“Lie still, brother:  God will accept the humiliation of your soul.”

“No, no, let me up; let me kneel beside you.  The prayer for the dyingsay it with me, Brother Storm; let us say it together.  ’O Lord, save ’”

"’O Lord, save thy servant,

“’Which putteth his trust in thee.

“’Send him help from thy holy place.

“’And... evermore... mightily defend him.

“’Let the enemy have no advantage over him.

“’Nor the... wicked

“’Be unto him, O Lord, a strong tower.

“’From the

“’O Lord, hear our prayers.

“‘And ’"_

“Paul!  Paul!  Speak to me!  Speak!  Don’t leave me!  We shall console and support each other.  You shall come to me, I will go to you.  No matter about the religious life.  One word!  My lad, my lad!”

But Brother Paul had gone.  The captured eagle with the broken wing had slipped its chain at last.

In the terrible peace which followed the air of the room seemed to become empty.  John Storm felt chill and dizzy, and a great awe fell upon him.  The courage which he had built up in sight of Brother Paul’s sufferings ebbed rapidly away, and his old fear of rule flowed back.  He must carry the lay brother to his cell; he must be ignorant of his death; he must conceal and cover up everything.  The moon had gone by this time, for it was near to morning, and the shadows of night were contending with the leaden hues of dawn.

He opened the door and listened.  The house was still quite silent.  He walked on tip-toe to the end of the corridor, pausing at every cell.  There was no sound anywhere, except the sonorous breathing of some heavy sleeper and the ticking of the clock in the hall.

Then he returned to the chamber of death, and, lifting the dead man in his arms, he carried him back to the room which he had left as a living man.  The body was light, and he scarcely felt its weight, for the limbs under the cassock had dried up like withered twigs.  He stretched them out on the bed that they might be fit for death’s composing hand, and then closed the eyes and laid the hands together on the breast, and took the heavy cross that hung about the neck and put it as well as he could into the nerveless fingers.  By this time the daylight had overcome the shadows of the fore-dawn, and the ruddy glow of morning was gliding into the room.  Traffic was beginning to stir in the sleeping city, and a cart was rattling down the street.

One glance more he gave at the dead brother’s face, and going down on his knees beside it he said a prayer and crossed himself.  Then he rose and stole back to his room and shut the door without a sound.

There was a boundless relief when this was done, and partly from relief and partly from exhaustion he fell asleep.  He slept for a few minutes only, but sleep knows no time, and a moment in its garden of forgetfulness will wipe out the bitterness of a life.  When he awoke he stretched out his hand as he was accustomed to do and rapped three times on the wall.  But the tide of consciousness returned to him even as he did so, and in the dead silence that followed his very heart grew cold.

Then the Father Minister began to awaken the household.  His deep call and the muffled answer which followed it rose higher and higher and came nearer and nearer, and every step as he approached seemed to beat upon John Storm’s brain.  He had reached the topmost storyhe was coming down the corridorhe was standing before the door of the dead man’s cell.

“Benedicamus Domino!” he called, but no answer came back to him.  He called again, and there was a short and terrible silence.

John Storm held his breath and listened.  By the faint click of the lock he knew that the door had been opened, and that the Father Minister had entered the room.  There was a muttered exclamation and then another short silence, and after that there came the click of the lock again.  The door had been closed, and the Father Minister had resumed his rounds.  When he called at the door of John Storm’s cell not a tone of his voice would have told that anything unusual had taken place.

The bell rang, and the brothers trooped down the stairs.  Presently the low, droning sound of their voices came up from the chapel where they were saying Lauds.  But the service had scarcely ended when the Father Minister’s step was on the stair again.  This time another was with him.  It was the doctor.  They entered the brother’s room and closed the door behind them.  From the other side of the wall John Storm followed every movement and every word.

“So he has gone at last, poor soul!”

“Is he long dead, doctor?”

“Some hours, certainly.  Was there nobody with him then?”

“He didn’t wish for anybody.  And then you told us that nothing could be done, and that he might live a month.”

“Still, a dying man, you know But how strangely composed he looks!  And then the cross on his breast as well!”

“He was very devout and penitent.  He made his last devotion yesterday with an intensity of joy such as I have rarely witnessed.”

“His eyes closed, too!  You are sure there was nobody with him?”

“Nobody whatever.”

There was a moment’s silence and then the doctor said, “Well, he has slipped his anchor at last, poor soul!”

“Yes, he has launched on the ocean of the love of God.  May we all be as ready when our call comes!”

They came back to the corridor, and John heard their footsteps going downstairs.  Then for some minutes there were unusual noises below.  Rapid steps were coming and going, the hall bell was ringing, and the front door was opening and shutting.

An hour later Brother Andrew came with the breakfast.  He was obviously excited, and putting down the tray he began to busy himself in the room and to sing, as before, in, his pretence of a Gregorian chant: 

“Brother Paul is deadhe died in the nightthere was nobody with himwe are sorry he has left us, but glad he is at peace-God rest the soul of our poor Brother Paul!”

It was Easter Day.  At midday service in the church the brothers sang the Easter hymn, and a mighty longing took hold of John Storm for his own resurrection from his living grave.

Next day there was much coming and going between the world outside and the adjoining cell, and late at night there were heavy and shambling footsteps, and even some coarse and ribald talk.

“Bear a ’and, myte.”

“Well, they won’t have their backs broke as carry this one downstairs.  He ain’t a Danny Lambert, anyway.”

“No, they don’t feed ye on Bovril in plyces syme as this.  I’ll lay ye odds yer own looking-glass wouldn’t know ye arter three months ’ard on religion and dry tommy.”

“It pawses me ’ow people tyke to it.  Gimme my pint of four-half, and my own childring to follow me.”

Early on the following morning a stroke rang out on the bell, then another stroke, and again another.

“It is the knell,” thought John.

A group of the lay brothers came up and passed into the room.  “Now!” said one, as if giving a signal, and then they passed out again with the measured steps of men who bear a burden.  “They are taking him away,” he thought.

He listened to their retreating footsteps.  “He has gone,” he murmured.

The passing bell continued to ring out minute by minute, and presently there was the sound of singing.  “It is the service for the dead,” he told himself.

After a while both the bell and the singing ceased, and then there was no sound anywhere except the dull rumble of the traffic in the city outsidethe deep murmur of the mighty sea that flows on forever.

“What am I doing?” he asked himself.  “What bolts and bars are keeping me?  I am guilty of a folly.  I am degrading myself.”

At midday Brother Andrew came with his food.  “Brother Paul is buried,” he sang, “the coffin was beautifulit was covered with flowerswe buried him in his cassock, with his beads and psalterwe left the cross on his breasthe loved it and died with it in his handsthe Father has come homehe said mass this morning.”

John Storm could bear no more.  He pushed the lay brother aside and made straight for the Superior’s room.

The Father was sitting before the fire, looking sad and low and weary.  He rose to his feet with a painful smile, as John broke into his cell with blazing eyes, and cried in a choking voice: 

“Father, I can not live the religious life any longer!  I have tried towith all my soul and strength I’ve tried to, but I can not, I can not!  This life of prayer and penance and meditation is stifling me, and corrupting me, and crushing the man out of me, and I can not bear it.”

“What are you saying, my son?”

“I have been deceiving you and myself and everybody.”

“Deceiving me?”

“It was for my own ends and not Brother Paul’s that I helped him to break obedience, and so injure his health and hasten his death.”

“Your own?”

“I, too, had a sister in the world, and my heart was hungry for news of her.”

“A sister?”

“Some one nearer than a sisterand all my spiritual life has been a sham.”

“My son, my son!”

“Forgive me, Father.  I shall love you and honour you and revere you always; but I must break my obedience and leave you, or I shall be a hypocrite and a liar and a cheat.”